


The Lady Sif's Completely Accurate Accounts Proving that Asgard's Younger Prince is an Incorrigible Prick

by postfixrevolution



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Pre-Canon, aka this is mindless pre-movies fluff, i think another title for this can be: loki and his faily lamey attempts to woo sif, loki kind of but not really being subtle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:29:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2264553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postfixrevolution/pseuds/postfixrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sif doesn't know what kind of game Loki is playing, but everything about it manages to grate on her nerves; the attention it gets from other people, the indiscernible gleam in his eyes when he catches her eye, and the burning in her chest when he always, <i>always</i> smirks. </p><p> </p><p>Or, in which Loki effortlessly trolls Sif (and maybe all of Asgard and parts of Vanaheim) by telling the truth without saying a word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the "let's bring back chivalry at only the most misplaced times even though the lady in question doesn't need your help" game

**Author's Note:**

> How do you even tag.

It doesn't rain much in Asgard, what with its ever-golden seasons and its immaculate climate, but Vanaheim is a realm of much more rustic scenery, its land filled with the ochre and emerald of forests and its seasons so different the realm feels like a different one each turn. 

It's early autumn now, right at the tail end of summer where the blazing heat has already begun to dwindle its way into a pleasant cool. It's similar to Asgard's perpetual perfection, if only a bit crisper, the air a bit earthier. When Sif, the Warriors Three sans Hogun, and the two princes arrive on Vanaheim, the sky is cloudy and the air smells of rain like it scarcely ever does on Sif's home realm; she takes a moment to stand on the runes of the Bifrost site and soak in the scent with a tranquility that only nature could instill. 

The five of them make haste soon after, as wind wraps around them, biting their skin and promising rain. Said rain begins to drizzle as the five make their way to the isolated village that Hogun and his family live. They bring word of the Einherjar's initiation ceremony, and Hogun's own cousin is to be within the ranks; no doubt their friend wants to attend. As they walk, water falls from the needles of the elegant pine trees like drops of glinting glass. Sif can feel the cool water dripping down her scalp and under her armor as they trudge along, and she almost wishes they could stop for a moment so she could feel nothing but the rain on her face. 

Unfortunately, her wish seems to have come true as they happen upon a river and a seedy looking bunch of trolls gathered around a pile of treasure much too golden to be of their own possession. The five stop in their tracks as the trolls look up, and an awkward silence permeates the air before Loki's voice cuts smoothly — and somewhat exasperatedly — through. "The trolls wear thieves' garb, their treasure is emblazoned with the mark of Vanaheim's master craftsmen, and they might as well be armed with half of Asgard's armories. _Need_ I say more?" 

A series of roaring battle cries from either side fill the air in an instant. No one catches Loki roll his eyes and scoff before he summons his knives and joins the fray, but none would be surprised if they did. He quickly makes his way to the trolls protecting the treasure and the other four place themselves in the very center of the battle. 

As such, Sif is surrounded by three enemies. It's hardly a challenge, not for her. In fact, the sweet smell of late summer rain makes the experience somewhat enjoyable. Fighting against an entire guild of troll thieves isn't that bad in such ideal weather, and she almost wishes her friends would give her a bigger part in the action. The warrior Sif slaying a scant three enemies while her comrades battle off the brunt of the horde; why, Thor and Volstagg would only be two drinks in before her role in the stories goes from a meagre "there to help out" to an even more insignificant "sharing the same breathing space as them"! 

She huffs, but the rest of her wistful thoughts are interrupted by a spiked ball of metal narrowly missing her head. Ah yes, there was a battle going on. With a large clang of metal, she raises her glaive up to block an incoming blade, shoving the troll away and advancing on the bothersome one that had swung at her earlier. The three trolls trap her against the thick of the trees, weapons held aloft, and Sif only grins. 

As the three simultaneously charge at her, she weaves in between two of them, turning about and stabbing the first troll through the back. She wrenches her sword out, thrusts the body at the other two, and they stumble back as she regains her distance. They gawk at their fallen comrade with wide eyes before turning furiously to Sif when the shock fades. 

"I accept your surrender!" she laughs, raising her glaive in a mock-toast to them. The two trolls don't surrender. Sidestepping their messy charge is easy when their actions are muddled by rage, and Sif can hardly help the crazed grin splitting her face, the searing thrum of adrenaline sprinting through her veins. She's practically dancing on air as she blocks the giant broadsword swung down at her head, using the troll's own brute force to send him careening forward into the dirt. Her mind is completely focused on the fight around her, blood singing with the sounds of blade and battle, and Sif is too busy jumping over clubs and spinning past swords to notice the status of her comrades around her. 

It's not as if she doubts the prowess of her friends; they've fought more than tenfold the number of enemies they are fighting now on many occasions. If anything, she overestimates the prowess of the _trolls_. An impossibly loud shriek echoes across the battleground, and all eyes look up, if just for a moment. At the source stands Loki, idly twirling a dagger in one hand with the body of the largest troll at his feet, the leader by the looks of it. The entire horde freezes where they are, and then, one by one, they begin to lay down their weapons. It's an unnervingly quiet process — Sif and her friends stay tensed the entire time, waiting for the other shoe to drop — and all is calm. Sif rests her swordpoint on the ground, satisfied with the result, until one troll, the one Sif had been fending off, is the only one left armed. 

The troll looks to be rather large himself, just as ugly as the leader, if not more. Perhaps he was a second-in-command, or — trolls being considerably greedy — wanted to be in command himself; whatever the rank, he doesn't drop his weapon. The troll grips his impressive broadsword harder, suddenly letting loose a terrible battle cry and charging for his nearest enemy — Sif. 

Sif heaves her glaive up from the ground, but it's a little too late for that. A piercing scream cuts through the air; a single, painful cry as the rest of the warriors are only left helpless to watch. Blood already starts to pour out from the lethal wound, and the quiet is even more uncomfortable than the first. 

"I had that completely under control!" Sif exclaims, glaring and pointing her glaive accusingly at Loki. All eyes that were previously on the dead troll with Loki's knife wedged in his neck fly up to Sif. She is scowling, her eyes narrowed in anger, and marches over dead bodies and dropped weapons to the Prince in question. He has his eyebrows arched in amusement, still managing to appear smug as Sif holds her glaive up to his face. "There was no need to interfere." 

"Apologies, my Lady," he allows, a saccharine smile on his face, "I could hardly leave a damsel in distress in such a manner." 

Sif's nostrils flare and her eyes flash dangerously, and right when Thor and the Warriors Two were sure she was about to run him through, Sif turns on one heel and swings her glaive, swearing in the least damsel-like fashion about something along the lines of Loki and stupid and misplaced chivalry. She calms down after a moment, and turns to Thor with a serious face. Thor does well to hide his nervous swallowing. 

"Let us just tie up these trolls and find Hogun," she announces. "We shall alert the warriors at his village of this menace." 

Her companions quickly oblige to her request, none too keen to argue with her after her recent episode; even Loki remains silent for the duration that they round up the trolls. When they are safely bound, the five head again in the direction of Hogun's village. Thor, Fandral, and Volstagg make no move to ostensibly hurry, keeping a respectable distance behind Sif as she plummets through the forest, the rain no longer making her any happier than she was. 

Loki strays unnecessarily close to her; she can hear his footsteps a few feet behind her, and she does her best to ignore them as she journeys on. Hogun's village is just a few more minutes away, if she remembers correctly, and then she will be able to busy herself with finding someone to deal with the trolls and locating her absent friend. She quickens her pace, trying to ignore the way her footsteps line up with Loki's — or rather, how his line up with hers. 

By the time they reach the village, the rain has slowed to a slight drizzle. Sif only feels it on her skin like a prickly afterthought. Water collects on the dirt in puddles and fills the empty vases and vessels lying around. Hogun's home is near the center of the village, and as soon as they reach the village borders, Thor, Fandral, and Volstagg quicken their pace to take the lead; they mutter something about finding someone to take care of the trolls. The shieldmaiden does not protest, enjoying the leisurely pace she adopts for the homey village, and tries to focus on the small feel of rain on her skin rather than the footsteps that align seamlessly with hers. 

A cart wheels past, splashing mud on her boots, and Sif frowns, if only because of the fact that _she_ is the one that must clean that off later. Clucking her disapproval quietly to herself, she quickly shakes her head before continuing forward. The silence isn't bad, punctuated by the sound of squelching mud underfoot, and she hopes the wordsmith can read her implied words of annoyance somewhere in it. Serves him right, anyway. _Damsel in distress_ , she snorts mentally. Sif allows herself a vindicating series of likewise titles unto the prince, stopped only when said prince's arm cuts in front of her. 

"Loki," she begins warningly, turning to glare at him, but he is quick to cut her off. 

"My Lady," he bows grandly to her, gesturing to the cloak he has just laid out across a puddle of muddy water for her. His curtsey is low and no doubt exaggerated, and Sif freezes. She blinks — once, twice — and he still remains bowing before her. 

Her face floods with red; she feels instantaneously affronted, unable to imagine anything other than a haughty smirk pulling up at his hidden lips. Multiple pairs of eyes are on her and her dark haired companion, all curious and questioning and making her feel more and more uncomfortable with each passing second. 

_Is that the Prince of Asgard?_ voices whisper. _I wonder what he is doing here. Who is that woman beside him?_ Sif's eyes flicker up to look at the people around her — trying half-heartedly to hide the fact that they are spying — before returning her gaze to Loki. Hitting him, as tempting as it sounds, is hardly an option with all the gazes set upon her and the Prince, so she smiles tightly, teeth clenched so tightly she's afraid they might shatter. 

"Loki, _you fool,_ what are you playing at?" she hisses, trying to keep her lips from moving too much, displaying her none too subtle hesitance and suspicion. Her three friends have stopped a short distance ahead, Thor speaking to one of the village's warriors, but the other two are gazing back curiously in search of their companions. Fandral's eyes land on them first and when he nudges Volstagg, Sif can hear his decidedly unsecretive whisper — "What are those two up to?" The passing seconds collect like droplets in the ocean of her discomfort. 

"Obviously, I am here to provide safe passage across these perilous waters for a dear, _distressed_ friend," Loki replies without missing a beat, tilting his head up so he can flash a teasing smirk. She bites back growl at his predictable expression, and thrusts her chin up into the air, paying him no more heed as she traipses across the dry fabric of his cloak, avoiding the muddy mess that was concealed underneath. 

"Hardly necessary," she tells him in a clipped voice after he picks up his sodden cloak and follows after her. "I do not yield to such inane obstacles, nor do I need shelter from them." Her head is still head high and she still avoids his gaze, but she can practically _hear_ his amused smirk, _sense_ the laughter ringing in his head at the embarrassment he just caused her; the thought makes her simmer in anger. 

"As expected of the valiant Lady Sif," he chirps, obviously pretending not to notice her frustration at all. "Such an act of sacrifice must be seen as mere child's play to a warrior of her calibre, no?" 

Sif doesn't reply and tries to push away the image of his wicked grin as he falls into step beside her, but her eyes flicker once in his direction and the image is imprinted onto her eyes nonetheless. The corners of his mouth are pulled up into an accomplished smirk, just smug enough to make her knuckles itch, and when he sees her eyes on him, the arrogance dims as he angles an eyebrow. Maybe it's a genuine curiosity in his eyes, wondering why she was peeking at him, but it lacks the frustrating aspect of most of his looks and makes Sif turn away, feeling inexplicably like _she_ was in the wrong for staring instead of him for his ostentatious theatrics — which wasn't true, of course. 

She banishes the small tightness in her chest, quickening her step and leaving Loki behind, casually hoping he trips face first into his bundled swab of muddy cloth as they continue walking along. 

When they reach Hogun's hut, Loki only knocks once before the door flies open and he is smacked in the face. It is then that Sif finally feels like due justice has been paid for his foolery earlier and laughs unashamedly with the rest of her group. 

"Feeling particularly _distressed_ at the moment, Loki?" she quips, not even attempting to bite back her amused smirk. "Perhaps the fair Prince needs his knights to ease the pain with a kiss?" They laugh again at this, and harder when Fandral steps forward and grabs Loki's hand, making a show of bowing and kissing it before Loki rescinds said hand and brings it down the blond's head. It looks painful. 

Fandral is rubbing his head, Loki is glowering, and all save the younger prince are still laughing raucously. Sif attempts to stifle her giggles, holding her side to soothe the laughter-induced ache, but fails terrifically at forcing the beaming grin off her face. Small chuckles still shake her shoulders, and as they slowly fade, she spares a glance at Loki. He hadn't softened his seething glare through the entire laughing escapade, and when his hardened gaze meets Sif's twinkling eyes, he balks at her unfading smile and turns his nose up swiftly in the opposite direction. 

Sif watches him, hating the way her smile grows a bit heavier as he moodily turns away, but then leans over and sneaks a glance at his expression again; he's no longer glaring and — even if the slight purse of his lips _isn't_ the telltale sign of biting back a smile — something about that makes it obvious to Sif that he's somehow not so angry about the entire joke anymore. She leaves him be after that, not questioning the way she feels lighter and not seeing the way his eyes follow her and soften only at her smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any and all mistakes are my own, and the next chapter should be coming within a few days!
> 
> Also, I swear all the chapter titles aren't this long. Really. I think.


	2. the "i'm not in the mood for your stupid games" game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sif might not be a master liar, but her fist does its own brand of talking very well.

It has been a while since Sif last had to attend any grand ceremony of Asgard. At least, one that was not a ceremony celebrating a grand victory she had been a part of. But alas, the initiation of new warriors into the esteemed ranks of the Einherjar is not an occasion to be taken lightly, especially since only the few and greatest warriors of the crop were even allowed to choose the path of royal palace guard. 

Sif does not remember the last ceremony, for she had been absent visiting her family that time, nor the previous one, for she had been nursing wounds in the infirmary from a battle gone wrong during _that_ time. In fact, Sif isn't quite sure of the last time she had attended such an event in her fine silks and made-up hair. Somehow, she'd been able to escape the stifling fineries and proprieties for quite some years now. And yet, it seems her luck has reached an end, for Sif is now sitting in her chambers, legs folded atop her bed as she stares across the room at the only two situationally appropriate gowns she owns. 

They hang on her wall, right over where her sword and shield always perch, and she can see the outlines of her beloved weapon forming hills and mesas where the delicate fabrics of her dresses lay draped. There is a frown on her lips, just as there is an irreparable gash along the skirt of her brown and gold gown from when she tripped at Thor's name day fest an unmemorable number of moons ago, and a vivid blotch of mahogany on her silver gown from when some oaf had bumped into her with a wine goblet at whatever event she last wore that gown at. 

Situationally appropriate as the gowns _were_ , now they are no longer proper to wear to a royal banquet and Sif curses many things under her breath. For one, she scowls at her past self for being too exhausted to remember to correctly dispose of her dresses after those nights. She also swears at the ceremony for being so inescapably close — only a day away — not nearly enough time for her to make some suitable excuse or to adequately injure herself. Not that she really was a fan of the second option. And last but certainly not least, she curses and swears at and promises to punch _Loki_ because _he_ had asked offly if she had adequate wear for the initiation ceremony the following evening because he and Thor were required to get fitted and she was welcome to come if she needed help getting a gown, too. He had this unreadable look in his eyes, something hiding behind his mask of indifference, but Sif stubbornly told him that she did not require his help and he could bugger off because she had a dress. _Two_ , in fact, and she sauntered off as he nodded in acquiesce. 

Sif scowls at that past self, too, because her two gowns turned out to be none, and she couldn't very well show up in her armor. It wasn't even her own initiation ceremony — she had chosen the path of shieldmaiden at that time, even if she was top of her class at the Academy — and if she showed up in full armor, Loki would _know_ she had fibbed about her clothing situation and he'd doubtless let her live it down for a while. A smug Loki on top of this nigh-chauvinistically chivalrous Loki she already has would probably only take centuries off her life as it is. Sif rather wanted to keep those centuries. 

With a large sigh, she falls down into the plush of her bed, legs sprawling out lazily. Perhaps she can find Thor and ask if he and his brother had gone to their fitting yet. He would let her tag along without question, she would be able to get her gown, and if Loki were to ask, she could say that Thor had invited her and she decided that if both Princes had asked her, she couldn't say no. 

In fact, that's what she is going to do! With a renewed determination, Sif leaps up and races out of her room, heading in the direction of Thor's quarters. She is halfway there when she catches sight of the prince in question. 

"Thor!" she calls. 

"Sif!" he stops, turning to face her with a smile. "Is there trouble afoot?" he follows, tone growing serious for a second. 

"No," the woman reassures, "All remains well. I was simply wondering whether you and Loki had attire for the Einherjars' initiation ceremony in tomorrow," she explains casually. 

The blond nods in understanding, smile returning. "My brother and I have just returned from our fitting, though your valiant concern for us is well appreciated, my friend. I take it you will be joining us, too, no? It feels like too long since you've attended the initiations with us, always away on some business or other come the eve of celebration!" He chuckles amably, and Sif smiles despite the small disappointment at the fall-through of her plan. 

"Worry not, my friend, I will be attending this time," she confirms, and her friend beams. 

"Wonderful! Now, I have previous arrangement with Hogun and Volstagg to attend, but I shall see you then, Sif." 

She nods, smiling as warmly as she can, and by the time Thor rounds the corner, her cheeks ache. The expression drops with a heavy sigh and Sif crosses her arms, wondering what her next move is. A normal tailor wouldn't be able to get her a whole new gown in time, but she had missed her only window to get one done by the royal seamstresses. She wonders how well her hair might hide the wine stain on her silver gown if she wore it down, but Sif is suddenly startled by a voice in her ear: a smooth, "Is something troubling you, my lady?" 

With a start, Sif spins around, kicking her victim away and grabbing the knife from her boot before grappling them by the neck and holding her blade to their throat. The adrenaline of her instinctive attack fades away as the familiar scent of magic and fading winter fills the air. The low chuckle is even more familiar, rumbling against her chest as she presses his back against herself. 

"Why, Sif," he practically purrs, and his voice makes her freeze with grace of a startled animal, heart suddenly trying to burst out of her chest. It's a different adrenaline than before, this one stiffening her limbs and emptying her mind. She's sure it's terror that has her — terror of _what_ , Sif doesn't know but just _knows_ it can't be him — and it is that feeling that prevents her from stopping him as he carefully pushes her blade away so he can twist around and face her. His eyes are glinting and his breath is warm on her face and her very being screams _danger!_ while all she does is remain frozen under his gaze. 

"If you needed a gown so badly, I hardly think offing me is the solution," he murmurs with those glimmering eyes, and the jibe, if not the rumble of his voice, snaps Sif out of her stupor, banishing the racing pulse of her blood in her ears as she steps back, snarls at him. 

"Do that again, Loki, and we'll see if your head really _will_ trade well for a gown. I doubt it, of course, what with all the hot air that seems to fill it," she bites, sliding the dagger back into her boot. His smirk doesn't fade as she threatens his life, and she reaffirms insufferable as a key word to describe the man before her. 

"Do what again?" he questions innocuously, and suddenly he is behind her, breathing against her ear, "Sneak up on you?" Her heart is a startled hare in her chest, her skin is a fire where he has breathed on it, and _oh_ how Sif wants to punch him and leave him for dead on the dirt. 

She bellows his name, rears around and grabs his neck, slams his back against the wall and pulls her opposite fist back — she'll blame it on instinct if he decides to needle her later — and somehow, he finds the gall to grin as her palm presses against his windpipe. 

"The hallway is hardly an appropriate venue for _this_ ," he quips, a lascivious glint to his smile — that sadist, that masochist, that _insufferable bastard_ — and Sif's knuckles settle for Loki's stomach. He doubles over and Sif wastes no amount of prideful satisfaction at the sight. "Or for that," he wheezes under his breath, and Sif pretends to ignore him, brushing her knuckles off on her tunic. 

"Yes, sneak up on me," she answers curtly, slowly feeling her mood begin to improve. But then, the reason why she had even left her quarters to begin with reenters her mind, and she has trouble smirking to herself as Loki stands a respectable distance away from her. He looks the same as he always does — easy smirk tugging at his lips and posture impeccable with the ineffable air of sophistication he always exudes. There's no trace that he was just punched terribly in the stomach, a momentary disappointment for Sif, but she relives the memory of him hunched over and bites back the small smile that follows. Eventually, he regains his ability to speak coherently, a fact easily worse than it sounds. 

"Alas," is what Loki sighs dramatically, and Sif can feel the groan bubbling up in her throat at the inescapably histrionic speech that is about to follow. "I was simply on my way to locate my flighty brother because the seamstress said she had surplus fabric that she could use to make another garment," here he flashes an annoyingly knowing look at Sif, "but, despite obvious tribulations," another look at Sif, and she begins to feel her knuckles itch again, "it seems he is wont to avoid my seeking. I suppose I'll just tell the seamstress to throw the fabric away. Don't you agree, Lady Sif?" 

At his last sentence, he turns his eyes completely toward her, and his smile somehow manages to be both innocuously charming and absolutely vile, a contradiction that fits the trickster almost too well. If Sif even had a moment's consideration in accepting his less-than-subtle offer, the sentiment is instantly shattered. 

"I could not care less, in fact," she snaps curtly, voice like cut glass. She hopes her words can cut his ego down for size like glass might, too, but ends up trying not to grind her teeth at how unaffected he remains. "Do what you wish with your fabric troubles; I am in no mood to be playing any more of your exceedingly asinine games, _my lord_. If I wanted to waste away my spare time with stupid trivialities, there are many more things I could do." She sniffs at him, tilting her head up in defiance, and when Loki remains silent, Sif nearly has the urge to sneak a glance at his expression. Stubbornly, she resists the urge and marches away without a second glance. 

She is seething from his insufferable antics and makes her way to the training ground to release some of her frustrations. The way Loki watches her leave with an imperceptible frown is lost to her, but there he stands, staring at her figure with unreadable eyes until she disappears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank everyone who has left kudos or commented (I actually didn't notice the bit with the trolls until you brought it up!), as well as those who have come by just to read. I appreciate all of it and hope to get the next chapter up before the week's end!
> 
> Ah, and any and all grammar mistakes are mine, as always; sorry 'bout 'em. ~~What even is beta reading.~~


	3. the "make one comment and you'll never be able to make comments again" game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, Sif is no idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This could be the time when one takes one of those really exasperated-looking meme faces and adds a stupid caption along the lines of "when you imagine a thing perfectly but you can never write it that way".
> 
> Ah, but regardless of how much I played around with this... I figure since it's the end of the weekend and I don't know how busy I'll be later, might as well post now and make the next chapter all the better! :)

While Sif has decided that she would wear her usual armor to the initiation ceremony that evening, it doesn't mean she isn't altogether satisfied with the fact. She hopes Loki might have forgotten her claims to already owning said garment, but knowing him, he probably hasn't. As such, she has her own verbal repertoire of lies to call upon, and she's rehearsed her valiant tale of wanting to honor the new palace guard by wearing her own armor to their ceremony enough times that she can no doubt recite it even after a few cups of mead. The Lady Sif most certainly won't be caught unprepared at all today, and in what was hopefully a good omen, woke up that morning feeling less sour than she'd expected. 

It's early afternoon still, and the knot of anticipation she was hoping to avoid starts building up in her gut despite her best efforts. She takes to the sparring yards she knows well, even if all her friends are busy preparing for the ceremony, and after reaffirming herself as a true force to he feared upon the training grounds, Sif feels admittedly better. 

The training yard is empty as Sif spears the dummy in the stomach one last time, as it has been for a while now. The sun will be setting in no time, and after that, the initiation ceremony is supposed to start. With one last run-through of the technique she's been perfecting these past few hours, Sif wipes the sweat off her brow and lays her practice sword down. There's an hour or two for her to clean up before she has to head to the great hall, so Sif takes her time sharpening her dulled blade and replacing it on the racks before she makes her way back to her quarters to change into her cleaner selection of armor for the night. 

The armor she wears now is dirt-stained, the leather wrinkled, and smells of salt sweat and metal polish. It's hardly the most appropriate attire to wear to a royal ceremony, but it's her old set and she has often worn it to train on slow days such as this. Her newer clothes, the set of armor she usually wears out, she had set on her bed before she left that morning. As she walks through the otherwise quiet hallways, Sif begins picking at the buckles on her current armor — it has more than her other set, making it more unsightly, too — and peeling her vambraces off her forearms. Holding the leathers carefully between her teeth, she begins unbuckling her chest piece as she pushes open her quarter doors with her back. 

When Sif's eyes search for the silver and red of her familiar armor on her bed as she walks in, the ineffable _absence_ of them causes her to stop in her tracks, the vambraces dropping eloquently out of her mouth. She abandons the half-undone buckles of her chest piece and flies over to her bed, staring at a mass of gold and black with wide eyes. 

Where her armor should have been, there's a gown. Sif won't deny that it's a beautiful gown, too, with its floor-length skirt darker than midnight and an outer layer of dark chiffon that seems to glint emerald in the fading light of day. The bodice is more fitted, made from a more substantial material — leather above the bust then a softer silk below a thin gold trim. The leather is almost odd on such a gown, but the lack of sleeves and the high collar give it a sense of sleek elegance. Delicate, distressed golds trim the arms and a thick metal belt of the same color sits on the waist, looking a lot like the one on her own set of armor. Sif stares at it, and almost hesitantly, she picks up the skirt, letting the cool silk cascade out of her fingers. 

Now, Sif is no idiot; she stares intently at the emerald sheen of the skirt and knows exactly where the dress had come from. Running her fingers lightly across the leather bodice, she notes that it feels just like the supple fabric his own garments are made of. Loki wasn't lying about surplus fabric, but Sif can't help but wonder why he's used it for _this_ purpose. As much of a liar as he was himself, Loki always seemed to enjoy watching others' lies fall in upon themselves. Scowling, Sif pulls herself away from the smooth surface of the bodice, resisting the urge to run her fingers along the cool softness of the skirt again. She won't deny that it's a gorgeous set of clothes. 

Pointedly, she turns her back on the gown, returning to the unbuckling of her filthy armor as she makes her way to her washroom. As Sif draws a warm bath, she doesn't let her eyes stray to the door and the bed covered in dark silks and golds, but she certainly lets her mind stray. The water is perfect, and around a conflicted mind, the shieldmaiden manages a sigh of contentment. 

Her extended time in the bath is spent considering whether she should wear the extravagant gown or ignore it and dig around for her original ensemble, which was bound to be hidden somewhere. Running a hand through her soaked hair, she huffs silently to herself. If Loki thinks a beautiful gown is apology enough for his foolery the other day, he isn't entirely wrong, but the onslaught of transparent quips he'll no doubt make at her should she wear it makes the idea of donning the gown unpleasant. Quickly, she finishes bathing herself, racing the sun as it sinks below the horizon outside her window. 

As she dries her long hair, Sif searches for her first choice of clothing in her wardrobe. The armor is in no means small, but she doesn't find it amidst her tunics and trousers at all. With a small shrug, she looks inside her chest, next. After that is underneath her bed and inside her washroom. As Sif's searching amounts to less and less, a frown becomes more pronounced on her face and she begins to grow frantic. 

"Where is that gods-forsaken piece?" she hisses to herself, throwing things out of her wardrobe to search it again. She digs past old trousers that she had outgrown centuries ago before she's out the door, heading back to the armory to see if she'd forgotten it there. The halls are still eerily quiet, only an occasional guard walking past and onward to the place of ceremony. She sneaks around them, hoping not to be caught so unprepared this shortly before the celebration. 

When her clandestine trek to the armory proves fruitless, Sif is mentally cursing many things — the trickster god included. With a growl, she pushes the doors to her room open again, and again is greeted by the sight of sleek ebony and gold. She collapses onto her sheets right beside the gown, stroking the silk skirt with a small frown. It was unfairly soft. 

Suddenly, there's a knock at her door, and Sif sits up. No one comes in, but a muffled voice — no doubt one of the messengers or handmaidens — addresses her respectfully. "The Einherjars' initiation ceremony is beginning within the half hour," they tell her through the heavy, oaken doors. "Do you need any help preparing, my lady?" 

"No!" Sif replies too quickly, "No, all is well and I am in no need of assistance tonight; thank you." 

There's a brief silence — the person on the other side of the door is probably bemused by her rushed reply, but the sound of fading footsteps quickly signifies their departure. Sif falls back onto her bed, picking up the gown and holding it out before her. With one last glance at the fading sky outside her window, Sif pulls herself up and begins to get dressed. Besides, she could always reintroduce her fist to Loki's stomach again should he decide to make snide comments about her choice of wear. 

Unfortunately, Sif never gets the chance to because after the long process of naming names and bestowing swords, Loki catches her eye across the banquet table, an odd look on his face as he regards her gown, and proceeds to not say a word. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a filler chapter, whoops.


	4. the "loki is actually the least smooth guy in the Nine Realms" game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It might be the alcohol buzzing in her mind, but it could also be the tingle of his hot breath on her skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The statements "Homework is the bane of my existence." and "Sorry for the long wait!" may seem to have nothing in common, but they actually have _everything_ in common and I mean them both. I do hope you enjoy the latest chapter, though, and I'll try to be as fast as possible with the next and last chapter!

The time pleasantries and formalities are over is the time when everyone at the banquet has drank at least four goblets of alcohol and abandoned their seats in favor of walking about or sitting elsewhere to socialize. Everything is less formal and more easily enjoyable when everyone is drunk — or at the very least, significantly tipsy. This is when the true celebration starts, when the old Einherjar begin to recount stories to the new recruits of old battles they had fought in the name of the crown. Eventually tales of battles for the realm turns into tall tales of battle, and when the many warriors in Asgard do not share their own yarns, Volstagg reigns the story-telling realm. 

The man in question is recounting the story of the five of them — she, Loki, Thor, Volstagg, and Fandral — happening across the horde of troll thieves just a few days ago, and just as she had predicted, has had enough to drink so that her part fades simply into part of the scenery. 

"The trolls were indeed very vicious, but I! My brave comrade Fandral and I were segregated by the brunt of the vicious troll horde! Over eight feet tall those brutes were, with teeth near as sharp as their swords! And those were as sharp as their teeth!" Volstagg exclaims, spilling a bit of his mead in his overzealous gesturing. "We were outnumbered! Outmatched in weapons! And yet! Fandral and I, we swung our mighty swords and barreled right into that fray with nary a thought of hesitance! Thor was lost in his own battle against half the enemy, Loki was sneaking about the fight, searching for their leader, and the Lady Sif, well — she was off doing whatever it is she does —slaying a few trolls or so." 

Sif is drunk, so she laughs and oohs and ahhs along with the rest of the crowd, but her laughter is decidedly more bitter than the rest. After that, Volstagg begins a more detailed account of his and Fandral's battle against the relentless troll horde, making the numbers altogether more impressive than they actually were, and Sif eventually gets tired of the discrepancies between his story and her version — the real version, mind you — and gets up, looking elsewhere for company. 

As expected of Fandral, he sits among a group of entranced maidens, no doubt telling a similar story to Volstagg's, but with decidedly more heroics on his own part, such as to woo the feminine masses. His face is stained red with intoxication, and so are his companions' faces, and he might even be drunker than Sif herself. She doesn't remember exactly how many goblets she's had, but she finds herself suddenly laughing at that fact, so she's definitely not had too few. 

Thor is with Fandral, too, occasionally turning to add a few comments to Fandral's story, but occasionally being enamored by the redhead that seems equally enamored with his arms and lips. Fandral frowns every so often, but only when Thor's lips are locked with his girl's and Fandral is looking, so they must be very loud. Another snort escapes Sif, but she's also standing alone, so she doesn't quite have anyone to laugh to. She swirls her goblet of mead, finishes it off quickly, and places it on the nearest table before she continues walking about the banquet hall. 

She stumbles once over the hem of her dress, staring down at it with wide eyes as if she had completely forgotten she was wearing it in the first place. Which was ridiculous because she couldn't very well attend a celebration stark naked, could she? It didn't sound like a pleasant idea, and besides, it often gets chilly at night and the gown she is wearing is a rather nice one. 

Funnily enough, the one that had given her the gown and whom Sif was sure was going to be the most prevalent figure of her night isn't anywhere to be seen. She has no idea where Loki is or when he had disappeared, but she distinctly remembers seeing him earlier — much earlier, when everyone was still standing stiff and the Academy graduates were still graduates and yet to be called Einherjar. He had met her eye for a brief second then, right before he had to go back to being Prince of Asgard at the forefronts of the hall; it was a strange look that Sif couldn't decipher — lips pressed together as his eyes traced the length of her dress in a way that made her swallow thickly, eyes flickering quickly away when they came back to meet hers in a way that made her want his gaze back, if only for a second — and she finds she wants to ask him about it now. Or just about the gown. She's not drunk enough to consider the deep prickle in her skin when the cool silk brushes against her leg right as he glances her way, or maybe she's _too_ drunk. 

Sif mentally weighs the possibilities, only to find they are way too heavy, so she gives her head a quick shake and throws back another goblet — filled with wine this time — before she makes her way to somewhere less crowded than the banquet hall. Her first destination in search of fresh air leads her to a balcony, as well as a graphic depiction of a pair of people she recognizes as two of the newly initiated Einherjar in a much too compromising position. She won't be able to take the palace guard seriously for a long time after this and quickly rushes out, hoping her face is only as red as the alcohol has made it. 

Having been successfully turned away from balconies as a source of sanctuary, Sif finds her feet taking her to the next sanctuary they can think of, a place she knows well even in the dim light of the moon. 

The training grounds are empty and eerily quiet. The sounds of the celebration still ring dully from the banquet hall, but the air is relatively void of excessive noise. It's quiet — certainly a sanctuary in the midst of such raucous merry-making — but it's far from empty. There's a figure sitting on the stone balustrade that borders the lowered training grounds, staring up at the sky with a goblet by his side. Sif instantly recognizes the silhouette, stopping in her tracks with a quiet scuff of feet against floor. Her disturbance doesn't go unnoticed, and she can feel her heart torn between bouncing out of her chest and stopping completely as he turns around to look at her. 

In the slight glow of the moon, Loki's face is deep with shadow and even paler than usual; in contrast, his chrysolite eyes are made brighter by the silver light and she can see his expression even more clearly this time, that same unreadable look that makes Sif's back stand a little straighter. His eyes trace her form again, slower this time — so painfully slow that she can practically _feel_ as it forms goosebumps on her exposed arms — and when they come back to meet her own, she reads part of _something_ in them. She doesn't dare name it, but that can't stop it from grabbing her by the hitch in her breath and pulling her forward. 

Carefully, she strolls closer, trying not to let her steps echo. They might have echoed, but the noise and the din of the party are somehow drowned out by the sound of his deep breaths and the sound of hers. She doesn't know what she wants to say or even completely why she's walked this far, so she stops a good three feet from him, a stretched arm's length away, but close enough to smell the scent of alcohol that permeates his clothing after so long at the celebration. She wonders if he's had as many drinks as her. 

"Sif," he states, only a small amount of confusion tainting his tone. "Why are you doing here?" 

Sif blinks, then frowns, tilting her head questioningly and wondering if she had heard his question correctly. He gives her the same look, and it's not until a few substantial seconds later that he notices his mistake and amends himself. "What," Loki corrects. " _What_ are you doing here. " 

He stumbles over his words — frowning to himself as if he doesn't recall thinking of those words before his mouth had already spoken them — and only because Sif is too intoxicated to think it's not funny, she laughs. It's a small chuckle at first, hidden behind her hand, but then he tries to call her a _plebeian_ , tripping over the word four times before he somewhat manages it, and that chuckle turns into a roaring laugh. 

Loki sticks with glaring at her, arms crossed as he looks down on her from his high position sitting atop the balustrade, and Sif can tell in the red flush of his cheeks half hidden by the moonlight and the way he tries to hide the slight sway of his shoulders that he's just as inebriated as her. Maybe more. She can't tell, but he seems like a clumsy drunk by the looks of it. It'd probably be easy to push him off the ledge. 

"Finished laughing at my expanse?" he deadpans, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at her. Sif looks about ready to laugh again when he quickly corrects himself — " _Expense_." — and cuts her off. She still allows herself a solitary snort of amusement, to which he swings a leg at her, but he ends up teetering precariously on his perch; the attempts to kick Sif are all abandoned after that. 

"I could laugh at a number of things more," Sif replies, "Such as the fact that the Prince of Asgard cannot hold his own in alcohol." 

Loki looks about to argue, eyes flickering to the drink beside him, so Sif leans forward and snatches his goblet, examining the contents — barely a sip's worth of wine — before quickly throwing it back. Loki opens his mouth to protest, reaching out in an attempt to grab the goblet back, but his lack of balance sends the prince careening. Sif would have laughed had her own body not interrupted his journey downward; her back slams against the stone floor as his chin collides with her nose. The goblet skitters loudly across the hallway and her senses are swimming from vertigo, but they are both an afterthought as she opens her eyes and sees chrysolite. 

Loki is staring at her with wide eyes. They are focused on her own ochre gaze, but then she sees them flicker along a path she willfully doesn't follow. It's a struggle when her heart is hammering like a battle drum in her chest, an erratic, restless movement that makes this sedentary moment ache. She needs to move, but his hands on either side of her shoulders make it hard; she needs to think, but his overwhelming presence — permanently tinged by the cool scent of seidr — inhabits her mind. It might be the alcohol buzzing in her mind, but it could also be the tingle of his hot breath on her skin. 

Sif swallows. His eyes flicker down and she follows them, traces their path and — by the _gods_ — he's looking at her throat and her breath stops. She can feel his eyes back on her face at that gasp, at the lips that borne them, and the heat of his proximity distorts her senses, wine in his breath making her far more intoxicated than wine from a goblet ever could. It's too tempting, that hazy numbness, and when Sif closes her eyes, that newfound darkness is quickly invaded by a searing fire. 

Loki sucks in a sharp breath when their lips meet, leading her to wonder who it was that leaned forward first. The sentiment is quickly forgotten, though, as his hand finds the silken fabric of her skirt, rubbing it against her thigh with a sleek friction that makes her _burn_. She throws her other leg around his waist, pulling him down so he's flush against her and making quick work of his neat hair with her fingers. Tugging at the curled ends elicits a small hum from him, vibrating pleasantly through her lips, and it isn't until he opens her mouth and she bites down that he _moans_ and tightens his fingers on her waist. 

Her back begins to hurt, pressing against the hard floor, so Sif places her hands on either of his shoulders, parting their mouths if only to languidly push Loki so he lays with his back on the ground. Their teeth knock as he pulls Sif back down by her hair; she hisses into his mouth as lithe fingers undo her hair's tail more roughly than they could have, but his tongue runs across lips and the pain fades away as she tries to chase the sweet taste of wine from his mouth. She shudders as his hand find her skirt again, the friction of the silk against her leg sending fire dancing across skin and deep into her abdomen. 

She doesn't recall when her fingers started to fumble with the buckles on his coat, but they do, and his rest lightly against her bodice, promising the feel of cold air in just a moment. She can't quite recall how they got here anymore, either — forget the fact that they're in the middle of a hallway — but she remembers his eyes on her and the way that uncanny silence made her twist and turn in her skin, and resolves that this is on him; he shouldn't have looked at her like that if he didn't want it settled this. 

_The hallways are hardly an appropriate for this,_ a voice echoes in the back of her mind, but all she registers from that memory is the achingly low timbre of it as it rumbled in his throat and against her skin. Loki doesn't repeat himself this time, but he pushes himself up, sliding his hands up her back to reach the buckles there, and leans further into her, pressing himself closer to Sif and Sif closer to the wall. Except, they aren't in that same hallway and there is no wall. 

Sif is the first to feel the empty space behind her and to fall backwards in a flurry of limbs and fabric down the steps leading down into the training grounds. The sudden absence of fingers pressing firmly against her thigh and a feverish mouth against her own is sudden, leaving her unreasonably cold, but it isn't as sudden as her back colliding against the stone steps. Dirt is kicked up all around her, and when she isn't coughing violently, she's barreling across the earth, sharp rocks digging into her cold, bare arms. Loki follows soon after, a mess of dull thuds and gasped exclamations. He rolls to a stop a good few feet before her. Her heart pounds in her ear, and Sif lies there for what could be both seconds or hours. 

She's the first to groggily sit up, but he's the first to snap to his senses, face a deep red, gawking at a disorientated Sif as he drags himself up. Her vision still swims a little, her heart still refuses to calm down in her chest, but she thinks she sees shock written in the green of his eyes. His name is stuck on her lips, trying to call out as he stumbles up the steps. Loki is already cascading down the hallway by the time she's coherent enough to be back up on her feet. She calls his name and he falters, but doesn't glance back at her. The hesitance rips her heart in two, but it is that echo of rejection that refuses to let her chase after him as he melts into shadows and his footsteps disappear. 

Loki is long gone as Sif stands alone in a moonlit training ground. It hurts when she sucks in a breath, her lips still throbbing and tingling and searing from his breath. Gingerly, she runs a finger over her swollen flesh and wonders if it was just the alcohol, or if his lips against hers were really real. 


	5. the "luckily sif has an amazing tolerance for this brand of idiocy" game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn't leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaah, last chapter already! It took a lot of typing and retyping at the beginning, but once I got going, this chapter kind of wrote itself... Ah, but sappy goodbye rants of any kind can wait until after the chapter. Hope you enjoy the last part of this ridiculously-long-titled story!

Sif doesn't immediately treat her multitude of cuts and scrapes from her fall down the steps. In fact, she forgets she has them until a good few hours after midnight as she stares up at her ceiling and fails to fall asleep. She reasons to herself that the cuts might become infected later, but the will to traverse down to the healing rooms for salve remains scarce. She's still wearing the dress, as well, if only because she's too drained to take it off. The silk skirt now traps the excess warmth of her body and blankets her legs in an uncomfortable heat. Sif tries to ignore the discomfort in favor of lying in bed and measuring the passing time in steady heartbeats, but sleep never arrives to relinquish her. 

With a huge groan of effort, she slides herself off of her mattress and stands up, swaying slightly as fatigue dulls her sense of balance. Sif peels off her clothes carelessly, not willing to expend the energy needed to do so carefully, and stuffs the soft wad of fabric ungracefully in some dark corner of her wardrobe that she won't end up looking in for a while. The oversized tunic and leggings she throws on are obviously worn, but the newfound comfort easily outweighs the extravagance of her previous outfit. Falling back into her bed with a _whoosh_ of sheets, Sif closes her eyes and waits for sleep. 

She opens her eyes to light. Sif doesn't remember sleeping at all, and if her raging headache has anything to say, true respite hadn't made itself known at all. A glance out her window shows the sky painted with a blue and tangerine dawn, and she marvels ruefully at the fact that she had not slept and will not sleep any more than she may or may not have earlier. Blinking harshly, Sif takes her time adjusting to the bright light. By the time her headache has dulled and her eyes no longer protest when she glances out the window, the last tints of sunrise roseate are fading from the sky. It's still early, almost unreasonably so for one to even consider being awake, and yet Sif pulls herself out of bed and stretches languidly. 

The basic desire to sleep continues to be quashed by her body's refusal to feel the weight her mind does, and as the shieldmaiden is wont to do, she straps on her old armor — her newer set is still yet to be located — and heads to the one place guaranteed to tire herself out. Down the empty stone halls, her footsteps are unnaturally loud. The better population of Asgard is no doubt recovering from a night of raucous celebration with a bout of blissful sleep, Sif realizes bitterly. Beneath the buzzing headache and the hazy recollection of silky friction, she could hardly quiet her mind last night; with a small growl to herself, she attempts to shove the thoughts away again, quickening her pace as she practically sprints to the training grounds. 

Sif takes a detour to be able to enter the training grounds from the opposite side. The residual memories of searing skin and saccharine wine are used to fuel the knot of anger she begins to feel burning in the back of her mind, and Sif blindly yanks a practice sword out of the stands without breaking her run and charges for the nearest dummy. She strikes it in the shoulder with a yell, lodging the blade in three inches more than the deepest notch. When she tries to pull it out, the blade remains stubbornly in place, and without a single moment's hesitance, Sif brings her foot down onto the handle, effectively catapulting the sword out of the dummy, but sending it skittering across the training ground. It makes a series of clangs and scratches, chaotic music to Sif's ears, before it suddenly stops. Her eyes follow the sword's path until they see a familiar pair of boots and freeze. 

Should he speak, Sif is beyond prepared to ignore him. She doesn't look up to meet his gaze, only stares at the thin layer of dust on his boots as he bends down and picks up the abused sword. He doesn't say a single word, just walks too slowly to put the sword back on its stand. She breathes deeply and quietly, determined not to watch him as she slows her heart rate down from her previous episode. If she pictures the dummy sharing her silent companion's face, it's almost easy to ignore him. And yet, when he circles back and stops right before her, she's eventually forced to look at him. 

He looks unfairly unruffled; even his hair is neatly styled as always, not a strand out of place. Her own hair was haphazardly pulled up into a tail as she made her way down here, and she could feel the many strands misplaced by her run flying about her face. The stark difference between his annoyingly immaculate appearance and her own makes her knuckles itch. Sif spares a glance away from him and at their surroundings; she and the young prince are in the middle of an empty sparring ground at an hour past sunrise while the rest of Asgard sleeps off a night's worth of alcohol and merriment. She scowls. Somehow, Sif can't be surprised that her main source of discontent refuses to disappear even after an episode such as last night. 

The shieldmaiden narrows her eyes at the man, decisively shifting her foot back into a defensive stance. Sif tells herself it is because are standing in the center of a sparring ring, and by the gods, if she set out to tire herself out training, then she will train no matter her opponent. She raises her fists up to her face. Loki pauses, unmoving for a second, and Sif almost charges him prematurely. Unfortunately, he falls into his own battle stance and the element of surprise is lost. Sif eyes him, and before she can make her move, he lunges forward first. 

A gasp escapes Sif's lips as he races forward, but she is able to sidestep his uncharacteristic first move, ducking underneath his deft high kick and hopping out of his reach. He watches him circle her, following his movements, and waits for the other shoe to drop, for his carefully planned strategies to fall into place and force her to think quickly lest she be bested. She waits and watches, stepping aside of desperate kicks and punches, and yet he still stares through her and nothing falls into place. Again, Loki punches, feinting left before sending his foot right, but Sif is almost too easily able to catch his leg mid-kick, tugging him forward and driving her fist into his stomach. He wrenches himself away, jaw tightly set, and as he stands with his feet a little to close together, wavering slightly from Sif's blow, she almost refuses to spar any longer. 

It's not that his strategies had yet to come into play; it's that he doesn't _have_ a strategy. It doesn't show in his trimmed appearance — this mental disorganization of his — or even the dark circles beneath his eyes, but it's so obvious that Sif was surprised she couldn't tell earlier. Listening closely, she can hear it in the sharp way he exhales through his nose, mouth perpetually set in an immovable line; can feel it in the messy cacophony of his steps as he plows through his motions with reckless abandon. Loki is not thinking like he usually does, not studying her intently enough to be able to fight properly. He's not _looking at her_ , and the realization makes her suddenly furious. 

Where he stands in a guarded stance a few feet from her, eyes focused on some insignificant brick in the balustrade across the yard, Sif drops the restraint she had previously been harboring — the strategy of winning with as little contact as necessary. She screams. There might have been words, but they are lost behind the sheer might of her yell. She charges at Loki and she _roars_ and his eyes widen as he panics but he _looks at her_ before they both make painful contact with the ground. 

Sif doesn't feel anything as they tumble haphazardly across the rocky ground, even as stones dig again into her bare flesh. They roll to a stop, her arms caging him as Loki breathes heavily, the terribly flat set of his mouth broken as he wordlessly admits his fatigue and let his ravenous gasps fill the air. She feels the exhaustion hit her as soon as his eyes do — looking up at her with some half incomplete thing she might label as regret — and Sif collapses onto the ground beside him, breathing heavily. She does nothing, feeling too heavy to even lift a finger, and just lets the sunlight dance orange under her closed eyes. 

When her breathing has slowed to an even, quiet rate, she wonders if Loki has left and if it might be better if he did. Memories of the night before cling to her like the aftermath of battle, making her heartbeat quicken for reasons lost in a hazy adrenaline and tinged with a souring smell — but of old wine and leathers instead of blood and dying flames. It feels untouchable, unreal, and Sif both wants it again, yet fears the visceral bloodlust — _desire_ — that lurks behind it. She doesn't hear him breathing beside her and contemplates the idea that he really is gone. Would she have won this battle? 

She never finds out the answer. Loki's voice cuts through silence as it always does — concisely, clearly, and knowing fully that his words will be heard. And Sif does hear him? The words cause her eyes to fly open, and as she tries to blink away the blinding sun spots, a small laugh pushes its way out of her throat. 

He had said to her, calmly, "What use have you for a fool's eyes when you can't even meet them yourself?" and Sif had laughed. It hurt, a little, to be laughing — the dulling headache in the forefront of her head and the tired protest of the muscles in her cheeks — but she giggles until the giggles fade away and she wonders why she was laughing in the first place. Loki remains silent the entire time. 

_You fool,_ she hears her own voice echo in the back of her mind. Sif pauses; she doesn't remember having said that. _Loki, you fool!_ her voice echoes again. Something begins to click into place. _**Look at me!**_ Her eyes fly open. 

He is looking at her. His expression is the most pensive she's ever seen grace his sharp features. Lips pulling downward, halfway but not quite a frown; eyes narrowed and brows furrowed, an unwavering chrysolite framed by midnight. Like a book, she thinks. Loki is looking at her akin to how he might a book, but even with such a comparison, she can't imagine herself as such a thing. The restless reality of her differs from paper and ink as much as the intensity of his eyes deviates significantly from the faraway gaze of imaginations lost. 

"Insomnia looks terrible on you," he says abruptly, breaking the silence. "Trouble sleeping?" 

He's trying to be civil — or something to that effect; Sif recognizes the effort — but he's honestly horrible at it. Offense is the first emotion to come to mind, so she goes with it. "As if it looks any better on you. How are my sleeping patterns even any of your concern?" 

He rolls over onto his back, staring up at the sky. Sif mentally huffs at his retreat, but gazes up, too. The sun is still far from the middle of the sky, but it feels like it's been that way forever. 

"They are not," is his honest reply. "Although, alcohol supposedly does well in tiring one. My experience is that it diminishes the mind rather than the body," he supplies. "Going through with desires you consciously try to avoid is frightfully easy," Loki laughs bitterly. 

She tilts her head to look at him, to narrow her eyes and frown at the direction his words are taking; he continues looking skyward. If Sif didn't know him, she could assume that he was only ruminating to himself, but she does know him — knows his backhanded double meanings and disingenuous statements. She considers getting up and leaving, just like he had done the night before, what with the way he continues talking like he doesn't expect a reply at all. Sif braces her heavy limbs, almost expecting him to comment on her leaving or not not comment at all as she does so; she gets neither, just a sudden, rueful, "And yet you do them no matter the amount of regret you're forced to endure later." 

It isn't his words that stop her — not that she doesn't hear the second meaning behind them, feel her heart skip a beat at their sound — but rather his eyes on her for just a fraction of a second, seeing her propped up on her arms and looking ready to leave. Loki looks away immediately after, and Sif fails to convince herself that he wasn't trying to hide disappointment in the quick retreat of his gaze. She doesn't leave. 

Standing up, she tells him, "A high reverence for self denial is _incredibly_ misplaced, even for you." She pairs it with a strategic scoff, a roll of the eyes, and a pointed avoidance of his surprised glance in her direction. "And get up," she snaps. "Being down is unbefitting of someone like you." 

When he doesn't reply, Sif wonders if her own double meaning was lost to the wordsmith. She begins to lose hope, that is, until something slams into her legs and sends her careening to the ground. Her back slams against the earth painfully, and suddenly, a dark figure blocks out the sun overhead. 

Loki smirks down at her — not an unfamiliar sight. "A stubborn self denial might be beaten from me," he begins, "that is, if my Lady were to not deny _herself_ full effort in our battle. Or is she still fearful of the true extent of her ability?" He offers a hand to pull her up. When Sif takes it, his grasp is firm and his stance is unwavering. She smiles wickedly at him, traipsing over to grab a practice sword. 

"I lay my arms bare if my Lord reveals his," she quips, stepping forward into an offensive stance. The weight of the sword is comfortable in her hand. She watches Loki summon his daggers and fall into a battle-ready stance. He stares her right in the eye. 

"Never such tricks with you, dear Sif," he responds. Before she can ponder the flip of her stomach at his reply, Sif lunges first, and the sound of clanging metal resonates across the courtyard. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit I had a hell of a time writing this (it's probably the longest multi-chapter thing I've ever completely _completed_ ) and I hope you all enjoyed the journey as much as I did. I can't say with any certainty what I might do next, but I do intend to have a next time sometime (hopefully) soon. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone that left a comment (I would gaze at my screen and jump and squeal happily in my seat every time I saw one, hehe.) and to everyone that read this or left kudos. I've got some kind of post-story euphoria going on here, but I don't think it would've been possible without everyone that followed me along the way. :D


End file.
